


the dream of a normal death

by wave_of_sorrow



Series: the imagination for reality [10]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Past Lives, Past Relationship(s), Regeneration, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nine and Ten pay Eleven a visit concerning his impending regeneration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dream of a normal death

**Author's Note:**

> IDEK. Bits of the dialogue just popped into my head and then developed into this. It exists for mainly two reasons: 1) I've been comparing Nine, Ten and Eleven a lot to each other and I always feel like I shouldn't because the way Eleven goes will determine a lot about his personality for me. 2) As an exercise to see if I could make a fic with three Doctors work without calling them Nine, Ten and Eleven.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos make my day.

_while i thought that i was learning how to live,_

You come to in a heap on the floor of the TARDIS control room (bowtie askew and in definite need of a hat), and through the ringing headache you can hear yourself talking with a Northern accent.

“There we go,” you, _he_ says, and you shake your head until your eyes focus on your former self (leather jacket and unhappy scowls and madder grins) standing in front of you. “We were starting to get worried about you.”

 _We?_ you want to ask, but before you can you, _well,_ another you (freckles and brainy specs and _hair_ ), pokes his head around the central pillar of the console. He says, “Now, don’t tell me we’ve taken up the habit of sleeping in our old age.” He looks positively horrified at the sheer prospect, and he, the other one, the other _you,_ makes a face (he’s gonna die in a dungeon, _in Cardiff_ ).

“Where’s Amy and Rory?” You’re standing by the console with no memory of getting up and walking there.

He (ears) looks at him (pinstripes) and raises an expectant eyebrow in that infuriatingly superior way he has (you had).

“Really?” he (brilliant) asks, scowling, and he (fantastic) does that thing with his mouth like _that’s your job, not mine._ “Fine, yeah, all right. They’re gone. You’ve lost them. _Well,_ you will have lost them, by now. Which is by _then_ for you, I suppose.” He pulls another face, and complains, “God, I hate how meeting yourself is always all sort of wibbly-wobbly and timey-wimey.”

“Oh, yes.” You’d forgotten that they’re gone, and how could you just _forget._ “I did.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he (such a lonely little boy) says, and sniffs awkwardly. “To be fair, though, you could have learned your lesson the last time you saved a seven year old girl from the monsters in her bedroom. Being on time’s never been your strong suit.”

“And it’s never been yours either,” you say, and remember when he (you) promised the stars to the uncrowned queen of France. “She died before you ever even got back.”

“So did Amelia, in the end,” he (always take a banana to a party) says, and you remember when you were him and another girl whose imaginary friend you once were wrote you a letter goodbye. “Except, none of that ever happened, really.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, and you can’t say that you don’t understand even to them (yourself).

He (could I get a bit of hush please) rolls his eyes, and huffs. “What he, you, I,” he stops, scowls, then tries again. “What _we_ mean to say is that they were never here in the first place. Neither are we, for that matter.”

You try to look around yourself, and find that you can’t. The knowledge that you are in the control room of the TARDIS comes from sense alone, but that doesn’t mean it _makes_ sense. You know there’s glass under your feet, but you think that if you could look you’d see something else entirely (metal grating and crumbling bits of coral).

You say, “This is a dream.”

“Give the man a medal,” he (buy me a drink first) says with none of the delight he’ll remember having said it with when he’s you.

“Oh, cut him some slack,” he (allons-y) says, and he should know that you can’t, least of all when you’re him (I couldn’t save any of them). “We’ve gotten old. A bit of slowness is to be expected.”

“If you’re done insulting me, I’ll be happy to wake up any minute now,” you say, and rub your forehead. “Freud would have a field day with this.”

“Good old Sigmund!” he (new teeth, that’s weird) says with an eager grin. “I’ve always wanted to meet him. We should do that some time.”

“Right nutter, that one,” he (what’s wrong with this jumper) says, and crosses his arms.

“Takes one to know one,” he (I hate pears) mutters, and he (bananas are good) only offers an unrepentant grin in response.

“Right, great, let’s agree to disagree,” you say, and slam your hand down onto the console so hard it should hurt. “Now, _why_ are you here?”

“How should we know? This is your dream,” he (burning up a sun just to say goodbye) says, and you could swear his suit was blue a minute ago.

“But you’re me,” you say, “and I know when I’m lying. So, tell me. Why are you here?”

He (have a fantastic life) looks at him (we had the best of times). “I’m sorry,” he (I’m so sorry) says eventually, and he sounds like he means it (you always did). “But you’re going to die.”

“You mean I’ll regenerate,” you say, and you’ve died so many times in this body you’re hard pressed to believe him (yourself).

He (lived too long) shrugs, and says, “Same difference. Granted, you won’t die, but _you_ will. Everything you are now and everything you feel will be lost. It’ll just be another man’s memories.”

He (maybe it’s time) rolls his eyes, and says, “Don’t be so dramatic. We’ve all got to go at some point.”

“Not me,” you say, and they (you) look at you like they always knew this was coming (they did). “Not again and certainly not yet.”

He (the only survivor) rolls his eyes again, and you think if he keeps it up they’ll probably get stuck that way. “What is it with everyone being so terrified of regeneration? You’re almost as bad as him!”

“Oh, _excuse_ me,” he (the winner) says, outraged, “for not being as happy to snuff it as you were.”

“Oi, I wasn’t _happy_ about it,” he (coward, any day) says, and you remember why they called him (you) the oncoming storm.

“Will you two shut up!” you say, and oh, how much you hate meeting yourself. “I don’t need you to remind me of how _miserable_ I was being you,” you say, and that’s not true because you’d almost forgotten what it was like. “I remember being you, born in battle and blood; all that rage and guilt. You were a broken soldier, tired of fighting and not knowing how to stop.”

He (hope it’s a good death) scowls, and says, “At least I knew when it was time to go.”

He (I could do so much more) snorts, and before he can retort anything clever you say, “And thank God, you did! I couldn’t have stood another minute of being you, with that rubbish Northern accent. What was up with that anyway?”

He (lots of planets have a North) fumes, and says, “And how’s it feel being born out of regret? He didn’t want to go, did you?” You take a brief moment to appreciate that what he’s (you’re) saying even makes sense in favour of remembering just how desperate you were (he was) to stay.

“Of course I didn’t want to go,” he (new new Doctor) says, and makes a face like _why would I._ “I loved being me after being all sort of gruff and unhappy all the time.”

“Of course you did, you were born out of love. You were born loving her and you died loving her, but you still died alone and miserable,” he (run) tells him (hello), and you think he could never have said that to anyone but himself (yourself). “But we,” he glances at you, and you remember how bleak the universe looked through those eyes and how brightly Rose Tyler burned, “we were born in fire and death, and alone. We had to learn how to love, so we wouldn’t have to die alone.”

“Well,” he (they break my heart) says, “technically he could still die alone, as long as you don’t tell him anything about his future. Spoilers, and all that.”

“How can I tell him anything about his future? I’m his past!” He (it goes ding when there’s stuff) opens his mouth, but he (I came first in jiggery pokery) sighs in defeat and beats him to it. “Let me guess: wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey. Fantastic,” he says, and you can’t remember ever saying it with quite so much contempt.

“Oh, will you two stop,” you say, and they (you) are entirely unapologetic. “Honestly, listening to you two you’d think it always has to end horribly. Either that, or I’ll be miserable and the second I’m not it’s time to die.”

“To be fair,” he (YANA) says, “that is kind of how it works.”

“Oh, shut up,” you say, and they (you) both just shrug like it’s only the truth (it is). “Can’t I just grow old and die in peace? Is that really too much to ask?”

“Course you could,” he (everybody lives) says, “But then you’d either have to be alone or watch everyone who ever mattered to you die, and we’ve seen what happens on both occasions.”

“There has to be another way,” you say, and you can’t think of a single one.

“You’ve already lost Amy and Rory,” he (the only certainty left is that you’ll end up alone) says, and sounds sorry, “and you’ll always have lost River. Do you really want to go on until you go too far?”

“But what’s the point of it all, then?” you ask, and you’re furious with them (yourself). “Why do I keep trying, over and over again, if it always, _always_ has to end?”

“Because it always ends,” he ( _hmmm_ and recorder and vintage car and scarf and cricket and ridiculous clothes and umbrella and cravat and leather jacket and pinstripes and bow tie) says.

_i have been learning how to die._

**Author's Note:**

> Bits at the beginning and end are from a quote by Leonardo Da Vinci.


End file.
